


The Barriers Between

by Darkrivertempest



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BBC Television, Banter, Colleagues - Freeform, F/M, Humor, Mild Language, Questionable Shakespeare, Snape Embodying Gordon Ramsay, misadventure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-16 23:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17553863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: Unspeakables Snape and Granger have been dancing around each other for years.  Minster Shacklebolt seizes an opportunity to finally bring them together that presents itself in the form of a powerful child with uncontrolled magic.  What follows is a trip through British television with humorous results.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KerrAvonsen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KerrAvonsen/gifts).



> Written for Kerravonsen at the 2018 SSHG_Giftfest on LJ.
> 
> Her prompts were a quote from Jane Eyre and to dust off a fic that had been languishing and bring it to life. I had started this fic so many times (as my beta, DelphiPSmith can attest to), and it finally fit this particular prompt. 
> 
> Much adoration to my beta, D. You fixed my cold-medication induced rambling like a champ! Thank you also to Toblass, who helped me brainstorm! 
> 
> There are several television series I reference in this fic, therefore, disclaimers abound! I don't own the shows, the BBC does and it would be useless to sue me, as I'm not making any money off of them and I'm poor as dirt. If you don't recognize the shows, a list of the ones I referenced will be at the end of the fic.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

_The barriers between reality and fiction are softer than we think. ~ Jasper Fforde_

It wasn’t often Severus Snape was seen in the corridors of the Ministry; few people in the wizarding world realised he’d even survived, let alone that he was an Unspeakable. Being 'dead' for all intents and purposes did have a rather nice benefit when he was tasked to make his way amongst the masses. On occasion, he observed his fellow witches and wizards giving him a double-take, only for that person to shake their heads and smile oddly to themselves before melting into the crowd. Anonymity was refreshing, really. 

On this day, however, he was anything but relaxed.

"Glad you could make it, Severus."

Kingsley Shacklebolt (or, to the public at large, the saintly Minister of Magic) would, if Severus had his wish, suffer a thousand Cruciatus Curses for having dragged him up from the depths of the Ninth Level and into the overcrowded conference room attached to the Minister’s office. Severus glanced around at the dozens of witches and wizards engaged in animated conversation, with whom he had little in common and in whom he had precisely zero interest. 

“I was given little choice.”

“Now Severus, don’t be like that; people like interacting with their co-workers.”

Severus gave him a look of pure disgust. “It’s quite possible, as you say, that wizards and witches enjoy indulging in meaningless drivel spouted by their colleagues. I, however, am not one of the mindless sheep that gather to listen to the latest gossip-mongering. I prefer to be left alone.”

The idiot had the audacity to clap him on the shoulder! “That’s not true. In fact, listening in on others’ secrets is what you did best, my friend. You just chose not to be obvious about it.”

“Let me phrase it differently then, _sir_ ,” Severus snapped, removing the Minister’s hand from his person. “I dislike crowds. Intensely. I never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups.”

The façade of Kingsley’s ever-present smile faltered and Severus was viciously glad of it. “I know it’s hard to let go of old habits, Severus,” he said, “but don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid? This is just a little soirée, not a one-on-one with Voldemort.”

Snape’s upper lip curled at his former master’s name. Though Shacklebolt was competent enough, he had no clue as to what the Dark Lord’s nature had been truly like, as he’d just proven with his off-hand comment. “Oh, I have the power to channel my imagination into ever-soaring levels of suspicion and paranoia.”

“About a farewell party?”

For the life of him, Severus couldn’t begin to speculate why the Minister thought he cared about such things. “I hate people.”

Kingsley gave him a wry grin. “Clearly. However, there’ll be refreshments provided by Arnaud Delmontel, Boulanger Pâtissier Traiteur. Perhaps that will tempt you—” 

“I hate cake.”

“Now you’re just being obstinate.”

“I am at one with my duality,” Severus growled. 

Shacklebolt sighed in exasperation and looked as if he were gearing up to continue his bothersome diatribe, but just then Potter barged up and interrupted them. Severus was pleased to see that the boy still had appalling timing… in the Minister’s case, not his own. Shacklebolt pursed his lips and made his way to the front of the chamber, which was nearly bursting at the seams with every mid-management (and higher) Ministry employee.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if we could all quiet down, please?” Kingsley asked. Conversation died away and he smiled and nodded. “Thank you.” He beckoned forward a spindly wizard, sporting a shock of red hair and dressed in an ill-fitting brown pin-stripe suit. “As you know, my Junior Assistant Percy Weasley has just been promoted to Senior Undersecretary.”

There was a brief pause, then everyone started clapping. Politely. Severus rolled his eyes, hoping the Minister would get on with his little speech so he could return to his experiments. 

“Unfortunately, the position is not within our Ministry, but in Australia, with Audrey Lucas.” Again, there was a hesitant response from those gathered. “I hope you’ll join me in wishing Mr Weasley all the best of luck in his new position.”

“He’s still a pompous arse, but now he’ll be someone else’s stick up the bum!” Ron called from the back of the room. 

Sniggers were heard from various quarters, causing Shacklebolt to frown. “Thank you for that assessment, Mr Weasley. I’m sure Percy returns the sentiment.”

That earned a few more laughs, but Severus tuned out the rest of Kingsley’s announcements as dull and unimportant. So there would be one less ginger in the British Isles—he saw no reason to indulge in ungodly amounts of sweets on the behalf of the third Weasley spawn’s upcoming absence. 

“I snagged you a piece of chocolate gateau.”

Severus turned to see his fellow Unspeakable (and occasional partner, when an assignment made it necessary) Hermione Granger, holding a plate with a sinfully luscious-looking slice of his favourite dessert. It was slightly disconcerting that his former student knew which confection made him practically drool, but it was part and parcel, he supposed, of working so closely with a select few individuals. He studied the offered temptation then returned his gaze to the milling crowd.

“Your resistance is duly noted, Severus,” Hermione muttered. “But I didn’t risk life and limb hexing a Hufflepuff right here in the Minister’s chambers to obtain this last piece just so you could turn up your nose at it.” She grabbed his left hand, plunked the plate onto it, and gave him an over-sweet smile. “You’re always cranky when we have to make an appearance at these events, but keeping you preoccupied with chocolate at least lets the rest of us escape your wrath.”

He harrumphed, yet didn’t disagree with her; she knew him well. Perhaps too well for him to be entirely comfortable. But the opposite could be said—besides being his former student, he’d worked with her on enough dangerous assignments that they’d learned to anticipate each other’s moves, cover one another’s back and trust where they had previously had no reason or desire to do so. 

Eight years had mellowed Granger into a competent, resourceful, imaginative young witch. Weasley had been a fool to leave her behind to play mediocre Quidditch, only to fail a mere two years after he’d wheedled his way onto the reserve team of the Chudley Cannons. He had eventually returned with his proverbial tail tucked between his legs, but the damage had already been done. Granger was safely ensconced in uni and had other things to worry about than whether the whelp returned her affections. Severus privately thought it was all for the best… at least for Granger. Weasley, sensing that their moment had passed, had slunk back to his friend Potter and begun Auror training. Surprisingly, he’d turned out an effective Auror, especially since he was usually posted to guard Potter’s back.

Granger had naturally achieved highest honours in uni, after which she’d returned to London and became an Unspeakable in the Tempus Room, studying time and the effects of time-related devices. Severus had a vague knowledge of who worked within each of the Department of Mysteries’ rooms; their fields of study sometimes overlapped with his own, and since none of them could consult outside the department, they relied on one another, albeit rarely. He himself was head of the Potions Room—the deepest chamber within the Department of Mysteries—and his chamber abutted the Tempus Room, so he had more contact with Granger than with his other colleagues. 

Severus had also noted that the Ministry had not assigned Granger to the Time Room at random. He’d learned of her Time-Turner experience during the Trio’s third year from McGonagall, on one of the few occasions he’d had to meet with her since the war. His former colleague was still hesitant to trust him, even after all these years. He understood her reasoning, yet a fraction of him had been disappointed that Minerva hadn’t seen past his ruse during the war. However, he’d quashed what little sentiment he’d had on the subject and retained a professional demeanour during all their dealings.

A nudge from his left shifted the plate of sweet decadence closer. “It’ll go stale if you linger,” Granger muttered. “There’s nothing worse than dry gateau.”

Severus pursed his lips to keep from smirking. “Yes, truly dreadful.” 

He capitulated and lifted a forkful to his mouth, nearly moaning with the blissful sensation of silky chocolate dissolving on his tongue. He licked his lips, then spared a look in Granger’s direction, noticing the high colour on her cheeks. He watched the progression of pink down her neck, where he spied a delicate gold chain dipping below her blouse. Recalling his discussion with McGonagall, he surmised that Granger had retained the Time-Turner she’d been given while at Hogwarts, and now kept it with her at all times. Wise decision, since it was the last known portable item of its kind. He imagined there were stationary units, somewhere in the world, but only Granger would know their whereabouts. 

Though she was not looking directly at him, Severus observed the slight age and worry lines that had started to appear on her face. Not that there was anything wrong with such marks of time, but it was surprising that they had appeared at such a young age. He wondered if she was truly thirty-two or if excessive Time-Turner use had aged her; her face reflected perhaps a forty-something age. It wouldn’t surprise him. Although witches and wizards had a longer lifespan than Muggles, she seemed much older (and wiser) than peers of her own age. 

“If you don’t stop staring, people will talk,” she said in a low voice.

Caught in outright ogling, Severus cleared his throat and busied himself with finishing the gateau. He heard her laughing lightly and felt his own cheeks flamed red. That was inexcusable—being overt in his observations was tantamount to failing a Potions exam, something which _did not ever happen_. 

Her smile dropped somewhat as she ruefully added, “Don’t worry. I know you’re not interested in me that way.” She gave him a false, overly bright smile, her shields firmly in place. “Not many people are. For the best, I think, with my lifestyle.”

Severus frowned and was about to correct her skewed interpretation of herself, when Shacklebolt appeared before them. 

“Just the two people I need to speak with.”

“I knew it!” Severus growled. “You never ask for me unless you need something unsavoury done in the name of the Ministry.”

Granger glanced between the two men. “What’s happened?”

Shacklebolt gave them a thin smile. “Would you be good enough to please stay after the party is over?”

“Only for sheer morbid curiosity,” Severus said with a raised eyebrow.

The Minister nodded his thanks and drifted away, back into the sea of people filling his chambers.

“I’ve never seen Kingsley rattled,” Granger murmured. 

“I have. Once. It was concerning…” Snape trailed off, but Granger clearly had no doubt as to whom he referred. It was one of the reasons he increasingly found her company tolerable.

She hummed softly and nodded, letting her gaze drift amongst their colleagues.

* * *

It was only after reassuring Potter that nothing dire was going to happen to her that Granger was able to escape with Severus to Kingsley’s office, where she sat down next to him in front of the Minister’s desk. “Tell us.”

Shacklebolt leaned forward and sighed heavily. “You recall that Professor McGonagall became the keeper of the _Reliquum_ Quill upon becoming the Headmistress of Hogwarts, yes?”

The _Reliquum_ Quill wrote down in the Book of Admittance the name of every wizard and witch in the UK when they were born. Thus, there was a record of every member of the British wizarding population from the moment of his or her birth, regardless of location or ancestry. If there were a child born that registered as particularly powerful, a Squib or other magical folk in the vicinity of said child, were notified and asked to keep an eye on them, should there be any sort of ‘incident’ prior to them reaching Hogwarts. For the most part, these precautionary measures worked to the advantage of all parties involved, but there were always exceptions. 

Both nodded, so Shacklebolt continued.

“As you know, being Headmistress is a full-time job, especially after war.” Shacklebolt gave Severus a grim smile. 

“Minerva certainly looked frazzled that last time I spoke with her,” Severus agreed.

“Yes, and things sometimes slip through the cracks. She contacted me when she realised there was a name that had been overlooked within the tome.”

Shacklebolt rose and disappeared into a hidden alcove, returning with a piece of parchment. He placed it on the desk for Severus and Granger to see. In flourishing script was a name, date and location.

_Adair Tenpenny_

_June 5th, 2002_

_St Ives, Cornwall_

Severus frowned. “And? It’s 2010, she’s eight and hardly ready for a letter from Hogwarts.”

“That’s the problem,” Shacklebolt sighed.

“What do you mean?” Granger asked. “Is she showing signs of uncontrolled magic?”

Shacklebolt grunted. “I think this goes beyond ‘uncontrolled magic’. It seems this child has quite a bit of power. Normally, we would have had someone monitoring her, but one of the reasons she slipped under the radar, so-to-speak, was because her power was practically non-existent until a week ago. That’s when Minerva became alerted to the girl. Her family have not been contacted, but I’ve been getting odd reports in that area: people going missing, only to turn up later with no memory of where they’d been, items disappearing and reappearing in locations they have no business being.” 

“Such as?” Granger asked.

“They found several stop signs in the bell tower of the local parish, preventing the bells from ringing out Evensong.”

“Clever,” Severus mused. 

Kingsley gave him a disapproving look. “As I was about to say, for a person's ability to perform magic to be useful, a good deal of training is required to acquire the correct discipline.” He fixed his gaze on Granger. “You were an anomaly, Miss Granger, even for a Muggle-born. Your parents, while they were wary of your burgeoning powers, were relatively unperturbed by the idea that their child could perform magic.”

“My parents were very patient,” she said wryly. “I wasn’t chastised when I accidentally turned our dog into a potato in a fit of pique.” At Severus’ snort, she gave him a crooked smile. “They only asked that I return him to his original shape—but I had no clue how I’d changed him in the first place, so I was a bit distraught. That’s when Professor McGonagall began her visits, to educate my family on what was going on and what it all meant.”

“As with most of your Muggle-born peers,” Shacklebolt agreed. 

“Has Miss Tenpenny accidentally harmed someone?” Granger asked. 

Shacklebolt grew uneasy. “We’re unsure. Something must have happened to cause her power to spike, but she may have had run-ins with others and they just don’t remember it.”

Severus leaned back in his chair and stared at the Minister. “You want me and Granger to ascertain whether she is a threat.”

Shacklebolt didn’t have to confirm it out loud. “Severus, you and Miss Granger are among the few members of the Ministry that I trust implicitly. Desperate or threatening circumstances are a catalyst for subconscious and untrained magic to manifest. Children, Muggle-born or otherwise, are prone to tantrums, fears or anger, leading to uncontrolled bursts of magic. Miss Granger’s example proves this point. This child has exhibited increasing amounts of wild magic, even though she’s quite young. I don’t want another Riddle on our hands because no one thought to channel her impulses into something non-destructive. I’m asking you to evaluate her situation, to introduce the idea of magical training to her parents.”

Granger frowned and stared at the name on the parchment. “Do you truly think she could be as powerful as Voldemort? She’s only eight.” 

“I shouldn’t need to remind you, Miss Granger, but on one occasion, Tom Riddle took two orphans into a cave, where he performed an act so horrifying that they were traumatised into silence. He was five at the time.”

“But she’s—”

“Riddle was sixteen when he created his first Horcrux,” Shacklebolt added. “Youth doesn’t necessarily denote innocence, Hermione.”

Granger turned to Severus. “You knew the Dark Lord better than anyone, knew the far-reaching effects of his power. Do you think this girl could be a danger to herself or those around her?”

“I am… unsure,” he answered hesitantly. “I would need to have direct contact with her, observer her interactions with others to determine the strength of any possibly latent powers.” 

“My thoughts exactly,” Shacklebolt agreed. “Hence the assignment for you both to visit Miss Tenpenny.” 

“I have sensitive potions that need my constant—”

“I’ve almost harnessed worm-hole technology for use in—”

Shacklebolt gave them both a hard glare. “Not to be too dramatic, but this girl could be the next Dark Lord in the making. I want the threat neutralised if she is. I will _not_ suffer through another war where I’m rendered helpless to our people!” He slammed his fist down on his desk for good measure. “I will _not_ watch as my friends and loved ones are slaughtered, not while I can prevent it!”

After several minutes of thick, cloying silence, Granger cleared her throat. “When would you like us to leave?”

Shacklebolt glanced at Severus. “And you?”

Severus gave him a wicked smile full of crooked teeth. “As ever, I do as I’m told.”

The Minister huffed in frustration and stood. “What would you have me do, Severus?”

“Nothing that would sully _your_ hands, of course,” Severus spat. “That’s why you’re sending me, because I’ll do what no one else seems capable of doing.”

“Severus,” Granger whispered, tugging on his arm. “We’re not going to harm Adair, just-”

He whirled on her. “And if she’s more powerful than Riddle and decides that we’re flies to be swatted, then what? Hmm? It’s not like we could drag her before the Wizengamot. The illegal we do immediately. The unconstitutional takes a little longer, and our world may not survive the trial!”

Severus jerked his arm from Granger’s grasp and headed for the door, pausing on the threshold to look at her. “There is one person who knew the Dark Lord better, Miss Granger. Perhaps you should ask Potter about his intimate knowledge of the serpent.”

The door slammed in his wake.

* * *

The autumn morning broke crisp and cold, the colourful, brittle leaves scattering along the pavement. Standing in a secluded area near the Muggle entrance to the Ministry, Severus scanned his surroundings impatiently. Granger was late for their rendezvous. He was about to leave when he felt the shift in atmospheric pressure that preceded someone Apparating. A loud snap and Granger was walking towards him, holding two cups.

“You’re late,” Severus muttered.

“I was getting us coffee,” she retorted. “Now I think I’ll keep them both.”

He held out his hand. “Not if you value your sanity.” 

She waited until he’d taken his first gulp before saying, “I doubt I have any left. That’s why I get along with you so well.”

“Pardon…” He coughed as the liquid seared his throat. 

“Nothing to get choked up about, Severus,” she continued, smirk firmly in place. “It’s all part and parcel of our job as Unspeakables. You study in obscurity, rarely speak to those not in your inner sphere, hardly see the sun, then slowly forget who you are as your mind is consumed by the subject you dedicated your life to. Tragic, isn’t it?”

“Positively Shakespearean,” he drawled. 

Her smirk bloomed into a genuine smile. “Quite. I mean, you are dressed as an undertaker. Puts one in the mood.”

His eyes narrowed. “This attire is perfectly suitable for visiting the Muggle world.” Though looking over Granger’s appearance made him feel every one of his fifty years. 

She was adorned in whimsical Muggle clothing that suited her, allowing her to blend in, yet stand out to the more discerning observer. The gauzy, flowing top had an empire waist that defined her chest, while the heart-shaped neckline hugged her breasts. The teal, almost emerald, colouring was accented by deep red and gold, and complemented her complexion. It was neither obscene nor demure, a style that fitted Granger’s character. Beneath, she wore Muggle denim jeans that rode low on her hips and flaunted her curves. He swallowed thickly and shifted his gaze to her feet, clad in dark brown leather boots that spoke of comfort over fashion. 

“Well, do you approve?”

Severus raised his eyes to see hers twinkling. Oh, he approved. Too much. He straightened and muttered, “Passable.”

He ignored her huff of exasperation. “I could change yours… if you want.”

“No.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but you look like Mr Creakle, the headmaster from _David Copperfield_. Not exactly suitable when trying to observe in a non-threatening way.”

She had a point, damn it. “Fine.” He raised a finger just before she raised her wand. “Nothing posh.”

“Spoilsport,” she grumbled. 

Wand poised, she whispered under her breath and Severus felt the fabric shifting on his body. He assessed his appearance, and found he was… quite pleased. For the most part, his look remained unaltered. His boots were the same, but his trousers had loosened and became slate-coloured dress slacks. He retained the starched white shirt, but over it was a charcoal jumper vest and a black suit jacket. Severus supposed he looked… 

“Nice,” Granger said appreciatively. His eyes shot to hers and she winked. “Not so many buttons, you’ll notice.”

He took stock of the clothing and found, indeed, there were few buttons. For a moment he felt he might panic, feeling so exposed in front of Muggles (not to mention Granger), but her pleasant behaviour went far towards soothing his fears. 

Stowing her wand in a handbag the same hue as her top, Granger held out her hand. “Kingsley wanted me to remind you of our usual timeframe: twenty-four hours, and if no response or update from us, he’ll send someone to find us.”

Severus tsk’d and placed his calloused palm against hers. “I feel safer already,” he drolled, and they disappeared amid the fog of London.

* * *

The slate grey door of 1 Calaman Cottage of the Belyars in St Ives was anything but menacing. 

“You’re sure we’re in the right place?” Granger whispered.

Severus gave her a confused look. “Why are you whispering?”

“Not sure. Dramatic effect?” 

He rolled his eyes and tugged her forward to press the doorbell. To his surprise the door was opened by a petite girl instead of an adult.

The girl’s looks were striking. Dark auburn hair, so wild and curly it had a life of its own. Severus wondered if Granger had looked like this as a child. The cornflower blue eyes framed by sable lashes were made even more prominent by the girl’s flawless _café au lait_ complexion. She wore an emerald green corduroy sundress with an ecru knit cardigan, and her feet were bare. In the hand not holding the door, she clutched what looked like a remote control for a Muggle telly. 

She stared at them for a moment. “Yes?” she asked sweetly. 

Severus looked to Granger. “Erm, hello. Is your mum or dad home?”

The girl grimaced. “My mum died. Who are you?”

Granger, clearly taken aback by the information, held out her hand. “My name is Hermione Granger, and this is Mr Snape. I’m sorry about your mum.”

The girl shrugged. “She died when I was born.” She shook Granger’s hand. “Why are you here?” 

“Well, we’d like to speak to—”

“Where is your father, Miss Tenpenny?” Severus cut in, not wanting to beat about the bush. “And why are you not in school?”

The girl narrowed her eyes at Severus, apparently unafraid of his gruff demeanour. “School is stupid, full of bloody idiots. Why should I go?”

“Adair!” a voice called from within the home.

The girl froze for a moment, gripping the remote tightly, then turned away from them to run down the hallway. They heard footsteps and then a man stepped into the doorway and opened the door wider. “Sorry about that. She’s ill at the moment, bit temperamental.” He looked between Granger and Severus. “Can I help you with something?”

Granger smiled. “I think we may be able to help you, Mr Tenpenny. May we come in?”

The man paused for a moment, then gestured them inside. Severus quickly scanned the area, noting Adair’s absence. He became uneasy, however, as he studied the interior of the house.

Bright light spilled into the lounge from wide windows in the back of the cottage, and since it was a typical overcast day, Severus had to wonder about the source that was giving the room an almost unearthly glow. There was a wild riot of colours adorning every surface and piece of furniture: red and blue sofas with wild patterns, parquet wood flooring, green wall accents, and Persian rugs in multiple hues. Upon the walls were all manner of fanciful shapes, created in a rainbow of shades. It was as if a child had been given free rein to use whatever they deemed worthy and sod the consequences. The cornucopia of images and tints gave Severus the beginnings of a headache. 

“Please have a seat,” Mr Tenpenny said, pointing to a red sofa. “Would you like some tea?”

Granger waved him off as she sat. “No, this won’t take long.” Severus remained standing and, after a curious look, she returned to her attention to Adair’s father. “We represent a…special educational organisation, geared towards children who are rather exceptional. We’d heard that Adair was showing extraordinary talent in her classes, and wondered if you’d like to enrol her in our program.”

Mr Tenpenny frowned. “I was just made redundant last week, so I can’t afford anything posh. What sort of talent are you talking about?”

“Well, the kind that may be dismissed as—”

“Mr Tenpenny, has anything unusual happened while Adair was in the room?” Severus interrupted, not wanting to sit through Granger’s awkward attempt at subtlety. “Any unexplained breaking of glass, perhaps, or a plate shattering against a wall?”

“Not that I can recall,” the man answered, clearly confused. 

“No parting the water in her bath, or being caught stirring a pot on the cooker?”

Tenpenny snorted. “Certainly not. Adair knows not to touch the cooker; she’s a most obedient child.” His eyes narrowed. “It sounds like this ‘special education’ organisation is nothing more than a school for wayward youth, and my daughter is not in the least troubled.”

Granger bit her bottom lip. “Mr Tenpenny, we’re not accusing Adair of any wrong-doing; we just want to make sure she gets the best education available.”

“Not with a bunch of delinquents, she won’t.”

Severus studied the irritated man. “Your daughter is thought to be exceptionally gifted. We are here to evaluate that possibility.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Look, I’m not sure what sort of ‘gifted’ students you lot are interested in, but I think we’ll pass. It’s time for you both to leave.”

“Mr Tenpenny, if you would just—”

“Dad? Why are you angry?” Adair asked. Severus startled—as, he noticed, did Granger. Neither of them had noticed the girl return to stand at the threshold to the other room. 

Her father kept his gaze on Severus. “No reason, love. Go back to watching your program.”

Adair didn’t obey, despite her father’s characterization of her as obedient. Instead, she slowly made her way to stand next to him and grasped his hand. “Dad, you should go to sleep.”

As if on command, Mr Tenpenny’s eyes rolled back and he dropped to the sofa, sound asleep.

“You made my dad upset,” the girl said.

Judging by the look on her face, Granger was totally flummoxed. Severus, on the other hand, was at full alert. “Granger,” he warned, tugging her to stand next to him and withdrawing his wand.

A mischievous smile curled Adair’s mouth. “You shouldn’t be here.” She pointed the remote control at them, pressed the OK button and gave them a cheeky, “Goodbye!”

There was no time to react, and Severus didn’t realise the severity of the danger until too late. The sensation was akin to Disapparating, but without the buffering magic that comes with skilled use. It was raw power, pure and simple. The squeezing pull made Severus feel as though his ribs were slowly being crushed, and in blind panic he reached for Granger’s hand. Thank Merlin, she grabbed it, and then they were both hurtling through a black tunnel. Just as Severus thought he might pass out from lack of oxygen, they landed abruptly in the middle of a muddy field, knocking the wind out of them.

“Oh… oh, that… hurt,” Granger wheezed. She rolled to the side and promptly was sick. 

Severus nearly did the same, but he didn’t think his pride would recover if he allowed her to see him vomit. Instead, he remained lying in the muck and took slow, deep breaths until he felt he could stand without embarrassing himself. And that’s when he noticed their surroundings.

He raised himself onto one elbow and looked around. “What the devil...?”

Granger stumbled to her feet and grabbed hold of the red fleece jacket he was now wearing. 

“Oh, gods,” she muttered. “It’s a good thing you weren’t in Gryffindor. You look ghastly in red!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, well that particular shade doesn’t do you any favours, either.”

She glanced down and frowned. “This isn’t what I was wearing.”

They both jumped as loud classical music started playing from no discernible source, and a voice announced, “Today we’re in Derbyshire, spoiled for choice. Beautiful grounds, stunning views, loads of stalls, and of course… that lot.” The sounds of a cheering crowd returned a greeting.

“Let’s go Bargain Hunting!” the voice swelled triumphantly.

“Oh, no…” Granger panted, still trying to catch her breath. 

Severus looked across the field to dozens of white tents with people milling about them, a large hall in the background. “What?”

Granger pointed to a man who was traipsing across the muddy ground, talking to a man holding what looked like a Muggle video recorder. He wore a light blue blazer with a dark blue jumper vest, a dodgy hat to go along with his dodgy moustache and spectacles sitting on the bridge of his nose. 

“Kedleston Hall is an 18th century mansion house set in over eight hundred acres of spectacularly muddy ground. So there’s no time to get stuck in the mud today. Our teams are gearing up, because they’ve only got £300 and an hour to shop—and hopefully dig out those bargains!”

The speaker changed course, heading towards Severus and Granger. 

“Granger! Explain this!” Severus hissed.

She groaned. “Sorry, but we’re about to be on Muggle telly, Severus.”


	2. Chapter 2

Before Severus could utter a word, a poncy-looking man in a light blue suit and wellies approached them, along with two women (one blonde, the other brunette) dressed in blue fleece jackets. They came to a stop surrounding Severus and Granger. 

“So, let’s meet our teams!” The dodgy announcer looked like a more posh version of Slughorn, but that’s where the similarities ended. He pointed to the two women in blue. “We have two friends, Kerrie and Jan—well, they’re friends at the moment,” he added, earning a laugh from the girls. “And for the reds, we’ve got…” He frowned and flipped through his cue cards. “Dave and Liz?”

Severus was still trying to get his bearings on the situation, so he was snappish, to say the least. “What the hell is this?”

The announcer’s eyes widened and he gave a cut motion to the camera crew. “I’m sorry, old chap. Mustn’t swear. It’s a family show, mind you.”

Severus was about to tell him where he could stick his ‘family’ show when Granger grabbed his elbow and gave a fake smile to the announcer. “Sorry, he’s a bit poorly this morning. Yes, we’re… Dave and Liz.”

The host nodded and indicated for the filming to start again. “So, you’re a father and daughter team—”

“What?” Severus strangled out. “Do we look anything—”

Granger kicked him in the shin. “Dad,” she said pointedly. “Mr Wonnacott would like to finish his presentation so we can get on with it.”

“Fine,” Severus bit out. “Proceed.”

The host gave him a dubious look and turned to the women to discuss their background.

“How do you know who he is, Granger?” Severus whispered.

“He’s been the presenter for Bargain Hunt since 2003. Did you not hear me when I said we’re on a Muggle telly program?”

“I heard you, I’m still trying to figure out what in Merlin’s name that child did to us!” he said harshly.

“Oh, you two don’t sound too happy about this,” Wonnacott said as he turned to them again. 

Severus said nothing. Granger gave a nervous laugh. 

“Well, Liz, you’re a student… what are you studying?”

It took a moment for Granger to realise Wonnacott was speaking to her. “Oh! Yes. Well, erm… it’s very specialised. Time management solutions.”

Severus turned his head and smothered a laugh in a cough. Granger sent him a glare.

“That’s unique! Is there much call for that?”

Granger gave Wonnacott a thin smile. “Presently, yes.”

“I see. Now David, it says here you’re a man of the cloth. Have you left your dog collar at home today?”

Severus’ jaw dropped. “I… what?”

Wonnacott consulted his cards again. “Says here you’ve been a vicar for the Church of England for eighteen years.” 

Severus was about to hex the man, no matter if they were on telly. The utter absurdity of the idea of him dressed up in a pastoral frock made him nearly froth at the mouth.

Granger tightened her grip on his arm. “He’s playing for the red team today, not the black,” she told Wonnacott. “Normally he’s buttoned from head-to-toe, but today he’s playing hooky.”

“Ah, I see. So what is your tactic today? How are you going to lash these two ladies in blue?”

Severus gave Granger a dubious look. She wanted him to play along? Fine. He recalled this particular program, having seen a few episodes on a telly while eating in a Muggle pub in London, but didn’t retain much of the guidelines other than each team used an antiques expert. The experts could only use whatever money was left of the team's £300 budget to purchase a ‘swap item’, where each team could replace one of their own choices with the ‘swap item’ if they wished to. This called for some strategic calculations. “We’re going to spend big today. We’re going to spend big money… and leave our expert just 50 pence to work with.”

“That’s the plan, is it? That’s really Christian of you,” Wonnacott said dryly.

Severus raised a brow in challenge. “Religion is costly.”

Wonnacott turned away, looking a bit abashed. “Yes, well.” He dug in his coat pockets. “On a happier note, here’s your dough. Three hundred pounds, you know the rules. Your experts await… and off you go!”

Severus and Granger quickly made their way towards the line of tents in the distance, stopping only for Severus extract his galosh from a muddy puddle. “I’m going to throttle that child!”

Granger snorted. “I expect if she’s watching this, she’s truly terrified.”

He huffed in irritation. Years ago, one stern look from him and any Gryffindor in the vicinity would scatter, or possibly piss themselves. Now? How the mighty have fallen. If he had to lay odds, he’d place the Tenpenny child in Slytherin before the Sorting Hat touched the girl’s head. He thought nostalgically of his position as Potions Master at Hogwarts, then glanced at Granger and her wild hair whipping around her and reconsidered. At the loud squelch of his boot coming unstuck, he pulled out his wand to clean it without a second thought.

Nothing happened.

He tried again. A few sparks erupted from the end of the stick, but again, nothing happened.

“Oh, no,” Granger muttered. She withdrew her own wand and whispered a spell with the same results. “That’s going to be a problem.”

“Your powers of observation are astounding!” Severus spat. In a fit of pique, he started wildly casting spells in every direction, only to see each one fizzle out. He was about to unleash a mountain of vitriol when he noticed that Granger was barely holding in a laugh. “Don’t. Even. Think. About it.”

She pursed her lips, but a few sputters broke through. “Sorry.”

“I’m glad this is so amusing for you, Granger. Pray tell, how do we extricate ourselves from this mess?”

This seemed to sober her mood. “I think the important thing is to not panic.”

Severus’ eye twitched.

“Erm, yes, well, too late for that.” She glanced at the tents. “I suggest we play along until something changes. Kingsley knows where we are, or at least so I hope. I don’t want to be in here for twenty-four hours, but once he realises what’s happened, I’m sure he’ll work on getting us out of… here.”

“And if the child deems Kingsley as worthy as us of being transported into her ridiculous telly viewing habits?”

She sighed and fingered the chain beneath her blouse. “Then we’ll try more drastic measures.”

“Why not now? What’s the worst that could happen? Tell me, O Mistress of Time Management.”

Granger glared at him and clutched the pendant. “I’ve never experimented with the Time Turner in circumstances like these. Maybe nothing would happen. Maybe we’d be transported to the beginning of television broadcasts. Either way, unless it’s a last resort, I’m not willing to jeopardise our lives.”

Severus took in her fierce determination and conceded that her strategy was, if not desirable, at least sound. “I’ll play along. For now.” He turned away from her and began trudging towards the tents and the surrounding crowds. “But I swear to Merlin, Granger, if I’m put in a ridiculous situation because of a because of a child’s pathological love of a nonsensical television show, I will make you regret it for the rest of your life.”

He heard her sigh. “Duly noted.”

* * *

They were greeted by a man who introduced himself as Philip Serrell, antiques expert. He offered a brief but droll introduction and then proceeded to wander off to look at the offerings on hand.

“Not exactly the chatty sort,” Granger mused.

“I like him already,” Severus said pointedly.

They followed Serrell to the booth of a man selling all kinds of odds and ends, where Serrell grabbed two brass stands. “These are… for your dearly beloved, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. They would’ve been just in front of the altar, with a coffin resting on them.”

Severus smirked. “Though I have performed many… _funerals_ , I have never seen a pair of coffins stands.”

Granger gave him a nasty look. “Most of your funerals were quick, _Dad_.”

Severus ignored her implication and noted the price, which was nearly the entire amount they’d been given to work with. He turned to the owner. “Can you do any movement on the price? For a vicar?”

Before the owner could offer a price, Serrell piped up, “What on earth are you going to do with a set of coffin stands?”

Severus stared at him. “You’re the one that bloody brought us over here to look at them!” He gave Serrell an once-over. “What kind of an ‘antiques expert’ are you?”

“ _Dad_ ,” Granger pleaded. “Just… hear him out.”

“As I was saying,” Serrell continued gruffly, “What I think, what you do, is get a piece of glass cut that wide and they’d make the most fantastic table.”

“How original,” Severus deadpanned. He turned to the owner. “We’ll give you a hundred and fifty quid for the pair.”

The owner balked. “Two sixty.”

“One seventy-five.”

“Two fifty. I can’t go any lower.”

Severus fingered his wand. Legilimency, though more precise when a wand was used, did not require one, but in their current situation all bets were off. He whispered the spell, and to his surprise found himself rooting around the Muggle’s mind. So, was it only wand magic that has its restraints in this altered reality? Further investigation was warranted, but for now, he planted the price he could pay in the Muggle’s brain and withdrew.

“One twenty-five, and that’s my final offer,” the owner said with a mulish tilt of his chin.

Both Serrell and Granger frowned but said nothing. They paid for the stands and asked the owner to hold them until they were done shopping. As they moved off to find other items, Granger pulled Severus aside.

“I know you did something to him, but your wand…”

“Later,” he said under his breath. 

But they didn’t have any time.

As they stepped forward to inspect some faux antique crates, Severus began feeling queasy, as if his stomach was being pulled through his navel. Before he could question her, he and Granger were sucked through a portal and deposited in a room that looked nothing like anything Severus had seen in his life. 

“A spaceship?” breathed Granger, eyes wide. 

“A what?” said Severus, but when he took in her appearance he was stunned. . 

She was wearing a deep purple outfit that looked vaguely anthropomorphic. Her abdomen was distended and atop her head was a covering shaped in a flimsy triangle. She had no fingers, only what looked like a mitten and a thumb on each hand, and a bizarre silver square situated in the center of her belly. She glared at her hands. “What the hell?”

“You look like an aubergine,” Severus observed with a snort.

She looked as if she was about to lunge at him, then pointed at him and burst out laughing. “You’re one to talk.”

Severus took stock of his own… outfit. A putrid lime green suit similar to Granger’s encased his body. He felt his head to see if he too wore a triangle, but his fingers told him that his cap held nothing more than a straight pole. He was sure he looked a right pillock. He was about to offer a rude comment on how Granger’s hair still wasn’t tamed by the headpiece when a blue, mechanical-looking elephant swished into the room, its trunk pressed to the floor and making obscene sucking noises.

“One day, in Teletubbie land, the Noo Noo was tidying up when he heard somebody coming,” a disembodied voice said. A horrid ‘la la la’ filtered through a closed door to their left. 

Severus gave Granger an evil smile. “Remember when I said I had not better find myself in some mindless drivel of a children’s program?”

Granger opened her mouth to retort, but before she could say anything the door opened and a yellow...creature bounced into the room, singing. Atop its head was a curlicue and it sported the same formless body suit that he and Granger wore. The face, however, looked like a mouse with an allergic reaction.

“Look at La La’s knees!” it chirped.

Severus noticed the dirt smudges on the being’s knees and sniggered. “I could say something inappropriate about what it was doing on its knees—”

“But you won’t, will you?” Granger said between clenched teeth. “It’s a children’s program.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Degenerate.”

“You have no idea.”

Just as he was about to expound on how dirty he could be, he felt that nauseating tingle in his stomach that had preceded the transport to another reality. “God, not again!”

Moments later Granger was strapped to an ambulance gurney with Severus hovering over her. The front seat was occupied by what looked like a Grand Prix driver, decked out in white with a helmet covering his face. 

“Severus,” Granger said, clearly nervous. “Where are we? What are they doing?”

He looked down at his now gloved hands and round at the interior of the vehicle. “I want to say this is an ambulance, but it’s not a kind I have ever seen before.”

She glanced up, seeing bags of fluid hanging from poles above her prone body. “Are we in a medical drama?” She tried to move but straps prevented her from rising. “Severus! Get me out of here!”

Severus moved to unhook the straps when he heard someone outside the ambulance shout, “Three, two, one! GO!”

The vehicle leaped forward at an insane speed, causing Severus to be thrown towards the back of the vehicle. “What bloody moron put wheels on a paramedic seat?” He grabbed the bars on the gurney to keep from falling through the rear doors and pulled himself back Granger’s side as a siren whooped atop the vehicle. “Why is a child,” he gripped the side of the gurney tightly as the ambulance went around a sharp curve, “watching a program such as—”

“I’m going to be sick!”

He had no time to move out of the way as Granger emptied her stomach all over him. He spared a brief moment to notice that the clothes he was wearing were the same in which he had started out that morning, but now that they were soiled it didn’t seem to matter. 

“Sorry,” she said miserably. “I get horrible motion sickness.”

“There are spells for that.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Ones that we’re unable to perform.” There was another hard turn in the road, and the driver sped up. “Oh… oh, no.”

“No, wait!”

Severus was again doused with what was left of Granger’s coffee. 

“Stop the damn car!” 

The driver ignored Severus’ demands and continued on. As Severus contemplated shoving the driver out the door, he spied an obstacle on the road through the windscreen: speed humps.

“No!”

The tyres hit the hump and Severus was flung upwards, banging his head on the roof of the ambulance, while Granger’s gurney slid to the side and nearly fell off the platform upon which it was situated. Just as he righted himself, the vehicle hit another… and another. After a chaotic but brief interval, he found himself flat on his back on the floor with Granger lying sideways on top of him, still strapped to the stretcher, her head near a delicate area.

Another sharp turn and Granger’s nose was planted firmly in his crotch. 

Ignoring the odd sensations this produced, Severus quickly grabbed hold of the clasp on the restraints, popped them open and freed Granger. He shifted back to lean on the rear doors and watched her crawl to sit against the side, panting. There was a loud squeal of tyres and they both tumbled towards the front of the ambulance as it came to a sudden stop, then rebounded and rolled backwards to land in a heap against the doors. 

Granger landed between his legs, his body softening the impact. They were covered in sick, bruised and embarrassed. Or was that last just him? He admitted to himself that her form against his felt nice, her hands clutching his lapels even though they were soiled. 

“Are you hurt?” he rasped, trying to control his response.

She placed her forehead on his chin and heaved a weary sigh. “Just my pride. I’m so sor—” 

Her sentence was cut short as the back door opened and they fell out, landing heavily on the rough pavement. 

“The two minute seventeen lap had taken the toll on the Chevy’s brakes,” said a voice above them, “and Doctor… hang on a tic, you’re not Hammond.”

Severus stared up at the two men who stood over them, scratching their heads. “Brilliant deduction, dunderhead!” He moved Granger off him and rose on shaky legs. “This Hammond must be psychotic to ride around in that death trap!”

The shaggier of the two men smirked. “Hammond actually built this.” He blinked. “But...where did he go?” He peered inside the ambulance. “Jeremy, I do believe Hammond is gone!”

“Rubbish,” the older gent blustered. “Holy moly, look at the state of them!”

It was the last straw. As the older bloke bent to take a look at the stains on Severus’ trousers, Snape landed an uppercut on the flabby jowl that sent him to the ground. Though his knuckles burned like Fiend Fyre, the satisfaction of seeing the bastard laid out cold was worth the ache.

“Severus!”

He turned in time to see Granger looking green again, and felt once more that wrenching pull in is stomach. His screams of frustration echoed around them as they were sucked out of yet another reality, and just as he thought he might pass out from lack of oxygen they landed abruptly in the middle of an empty room, knocking the wind out of them.

“I think I broke a rib,” Granger wheezed. She rolled to her side and promptly emptied what was left in her system. 

Severus nearly did the same, but fought it down as he remained lying on the floor, taking slow, deep breaths until he felt he could sit up without embarrassing himself. Finally he raised himself onto one elbow and looked around. 

“What the devil...?” He scanned the room, taking in the area. Multiple chandeliers glittered overhead. The black floor was polished to a mirror shine, reminding him of a dark lake in a darker time. Chintz-patterned throne-like chairs were placed at regular intervals in a poor attempt to break up the dreary atmosphere. Had a funeral recently taken place here?

Granger stumbled to her feet and grabbed hold of one of the black drapes that adorned the walls. 

“Oh, gods,” she muttered. “I thought the red made you pale before, but this room makes you look absolutely ghostly!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, well you look like something that rolled out of the discount bin at Oxfam.”

She glanced down and frowned. “This isn’t what I was wearing.”

Indeed, they were both dressed quite differently, yet again. His own attire had changed to an every-day, ordinary Muggle suit—black, with a white dress shirt. Granger, however, was fitted with a men’s oversized blue linen shirt, men’s grey dress slacks, a taupe corduroy jacket that was three sizes too big and a necktie that looked like it was on the verge of strangling her.

They both jumped as loud trumpets sounded nearby, followed by the clang-clack of armoured bodies moving at a measured pace. Out of habit, they withdrew their wands and remained still, listening for anything that might approach them. When nothing appeared for several moments, Granger lowered her wand.

“Do you know where we are, Severus?”

As he opened his mouth to answer Granger, he was overcome with a feeling so morose that he felt tears prickle at his eyes. “Oh, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew. Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon 'gainst self-slaughter!” 

He inhaled sharply. That wasn’t at all what he’d meant to say. He had to acknowledge, however, that at one of his lowest moments in the Dark Lord’s service he had felt exactly that same sentiment. Poised to tell her so, Severus once again tried to explain to Granger that he wasn’t… sure… where…

“O God, God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on’t, ah fie! 'Tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed. Things rank and gross in nature possess it merely.”

Granger’s eyes bulged. “My lord, I am your poor servant ever.” She then squeaked and grasped her throat. “Nay, nay! My tongue doth convey heresies before mine brain!”

Severus gave her a grim smile. “Methinks thou hast the right of it. A curse, O curse! To befall our presence to make wicked deeds with wicked speech.” He tried to stop, hoping to convey that they shared the same delusion, spell, or whatever the Tenpenny child had done to them. But as before, words crawled their way out of his mouth. “Pray, what say you to our predicament?”

He could see Granger struggling with the same issue. “Give that child no tongue!” she hissed, echoing his own thoughts. “The gleeking bat-fowling ratsbane!”

“Aye,” was all he was able to muster.

Her nostrils flared. “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”


	3. Chapter 3

Severus slid a finger underneath his tight collar and tried to pull it away from his neck, but the slim tie prevented much movement. “A pox upon this fabric!” he snarled.

He heard a snort and speared Granger with a menacing glare. She looked utterly unrepentant. Since when had he lost his ability to instil fear and loathing in his students? He was about to make a snide comment when his previous thought settled more firmly in his brain. Hermione Granger hadn’t been his student for almost thirteen years. What, exactly, did she have to fear from him? A vitriolic tongue lashing?

“Thou canst not say I did it; never shake thy gory clothes at me!” Granger quipped, pointing to the ceiling and presumably referring to Tenpenny. “Never was a child so wayward.”

“Aye, no protest issues forth,” he agreed. He finally managed to rip the flimsy fabric and throw the collar across the room. For the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why a nine-year old would be watching… Shakespeare? “The scope of ken for the gel is questionable.”

This did not sit well with Granger. Apparently he’d hit a nerve. “O, lament those whose grasp of womankind is muddled. Infinite is our range, to which man cannot follow,” she said dryly. 

This was becoming tedious. Of course women were intelligent, Hermione Granger the shining example of such. But Severus’ control on his temper was fraying. “Thou art a currish rude-growing strumpet!”

Without hesitation, she fired back. “Thou art a mewling dismal-dreaming haggard!”

Whatever play was being enacted on the telly was evidently not proof against Severus’ and Granger’s bickering. 

“Twitter-pated harpy! 

“Villainous hedge-born scut!”

That one hit a little too close to home. “Tickle-brained wagtail!”

Granger gasped and narrowed her eyes. “Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn and _idiot_ bubble.”

The argument must have bored Tenpenny, for within seconds that now familiar pull started in his stomach. He looked to Granger, her eyes widening as they reached for each other. 

When they stopped spinning, Severus found himself dressed in black trousers… and a short-sleeved, white chef’s coat. Though he was heartily glad to be rid of the constricting outfit, he was not sure this was much of an improvement. He heard someone clear their throat and spun round to see two groups of people: six men in chef coats, their shoulders capped in blue, and six women dressed the same but with coats capped in red. Granger stood amongst the red group, a look of panic on her features.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered. A cooking contest. He pinched the bridge of this nose. It had been years since he’d indulged in any gastronomic fare more adventurous than a mere soup or nibbles on the run. Now, he was expected to give culinary orders to this questionable lot? He glanced down to the name embroidered on his uniform: Chef Ramsay.

Ramsay, where had he heard that name? He searched the surrounding area for some other clue, alighting on the plaque that said, _Welcome to Hell’s Kitchen_. A devious smile grew on his face. Ah, yes… Gordon Ramsay. Severus was going to enjoy this. 

“Excuse me, Chef, are we ready to start?”

Severus looked over his shoulder at—presumably—the _maître d_ , who awaited his instructions. Well, he’d been thrown into the deep end of a situation often enough, why stop now? He nodded at the man and then turned to the two groups of contestants. He would treat this as a beginners Potions class… full of Neville Longbottom’s. The thought made him smirk. 

He knew the basics of the show—though he would never admit it to anyone, he admired the take-no-prisoners attitude of Ramsay, and indulged in watching the Muggle show when he had the rare stay at Spinner’s End. 

A typical episode began with a challenge between the teams. The second part was a dinner service, where each team worked in their own kitchen, attempting, under close and hypercritical supervision from Chef Ramsay (of course), to complete the service without getting kicked out before finishing for too many errors.

The usual wrap-up involved whichever team was declared the loser of the dinner service choosing two of their own to be up for elimination. 

Severus clapped his hand and said, “All right, donkeys, let’s get started.”

He first asked them to produce a signature dish of their choice, which garnered a wild range of results.

“What... is this?” he asked a nervous-looking woman.

“It’s my coconut and pomegranate root salad,” she said proudly.

Severus looked at the pathetic display of what looked like limp confetti. “And which items on this plate actually required cooking?”

“The… nuts are toasted.”

Severus gave her his most disdainful sneer. “The nuts are toasted?”

She nodded meekly.

“Well fuck me. You’ve toasted nuts for twenty-nine minutes and grated a bit of coconut.” He rolled his eyes and tasted the dish. “It’s passable… as far as rabbit food goes, because it’s all raw and crunchy.” He dumped the whole plate in the rubbish bin next to him. “Do us all a favour and spare us your next exploration of veganism.”

The woman was near tears when she left, but Severus was used to such reactions. He’d dressed down multiple students over decades. Her tears moved him not one whit. 

Granger approached and placed a beautiful plate before him. “This is _lièvre à la royale_.”

He frowned. If he remembered correctly, the French dish required at least two days to make. How did she…

She gave him a knowing smile and twitched her nose. “Just a bit of magic.”

His brows reached into his hairline. “Are we able to—”

“Not fully, but there’s something different. Maybe she’s had a change of heart? I don’t know.”

“Damn.” He sighed and cut into the hare, then brought a forkful to his mouth. He groaned with pleasure as the rich flavours melted onto his tongue. “Hermione, I would let you cook for me any day.”

There was absolute silence. Severus felt his face heat and he could see that Granger was beet red. 

“I’d like the opportunity, Chef,” she whispered, her gaze earnest.

He swallowed, the food nearly lodging in his throat. Was Granger trying to seduce him with food? He had to admit he would let her. But not right now. Now, they had to bide their time until they could be extracted from whatever the Tenpenny girl had done to them. Once they were back to their own lives, though? The idea had great merit. 

Severus then began preparations for a full food service that would be served to actual customers and culminated in eliminating other cooks. He spied a sheet of paper on the silver counter and read over (he assumed) the dishes they were going to cook. “Pumpkin risotto with roasted mushrooms…” For the most part, everything went smoothly. Severus put Granger in charge of the pumpkin risotto, feeling she was the most competent of the ragtag group, and as the evening wore on and he had no complaints, he felt his decision was vindicated. Without the need to watch her every move he could focus on the less-competent members of the show.

“Keith! You're sweating in the fucking food! We're in danger of being closed down before we even open. Toss it in the bin and start again.”

“Yes, Chef!”

Severus glared at the man. “You’ve stopped caring now. I can see it in your attitude.”

The portly cook gave an exaggerated pout. “No, I haven’t!”

“Yes, you fucking have. You’ve stopped caring about what you produce. So, what do you care about now?”

The man fired backed without taking stock of his words. “I care about making an arse of myself right now.”

Severus snorted. “Really? Congratulations. That’s exactly what you were just doing.”

Keith blinked for a moment and then groaned. “Fuck!”

“Exactly!” 

“Chef?”

“What?” Severus placed two finished dishes upon the hot plate and turned round to see a customer in the place where the _maître d_ usually stood. “Let me just serve this table and I’ll be right with you.”

“Chef, why is there no pumpkin in my risotto?” The man showed Severus his plate, a vexed expression on his face.

Contrary to the customer’s claims, there was indeed pumpkin in the dish. Severus sneered and waved him off. “Right, can you get out of my way? One spaghetti, one risotto!” he cried to the cooks behind him. 

“I want the next pumpkin risotto.” 

Severus arched a brow. The man clearly had a death wish. “Oh? Are you always going to be that rude and interrupt when I’m trying to talk?”

The man crossed his arms and shrugged. “I just want more pumpkin. That’s all I want.”

“Right.” He motioned for the dunderhead to come closer, then grabbed the twat’s tie and pulled tight. “I’ll give you more pumpkin, and I’ll ram it right up your fucking arse! Would you like it whole or diced?” he shouted in the man’s ear. He let go and shoved him away. “Can we get security to get Mr Knob-Head back to his seat, please?”

The man went a bit mental. “I want more pumpkin!”

Severus took the man’s plate and threw it at his shoes. “You want more pumpkin? Go steal a jack-o-lantern off somebody’s front porch, you pillock!”

A bowl of pumpkin risotto, topped with bits of orange squash, appeared in front of Severus. He grabbed Granger’s wrist and kept her there as he showed the obnoxious customer the dish. “See this?” He handed it to the _maître d_. “Table seven, please.” The look of outrage on the man’s face was priceless. “You can fuck right off with your pithy demands.”

As the man returned to his seat, grumbling all the way, Granger whispered under her breath, “Sorry, Severus. I thought I had put pumpkin in the risotto.”

He squeezed her hand. “You did. That monkey’s arse obviously had no taste buds.”

She snorted and quickly made her way back to her station to continue cooking. Severus watched her go, musing on the fact that instead of placing the blame on Granger, he’d taken the customer to task for daring to question his service and, in turn, Granger’s product. He knew she was more than competent, had proved herself invaluable on other missions. But here? He felt oddly protective of her, trapped as they were in these wildly fluctuating realities. 

As the night progressed she took the others in hand, showing them how to achieve a certain temperature on the meat, how to blanch the veg. As she had done so long ago while on the run with Potter and Weasley, she became the crucial element of everyone’s success.

“Excuse me, Chef?”

Severus sighed and turned to see a heavily-endowed woman leaning over the hot plate, her bosoms practically lying on the counter. “Do you know how much longer I’ll have to wait for my beef?”

His lip curled. “Do you mind taking your breasts off my hot plate? Look at that. How can I serve food with those fucking things there?”

“What the hell? Fuck you!” she yelled, affronted. She reached out and toppled a plate of food that was about to go out to a table. 

He rolled his eyes and continued service, until at last it was time to choose who would advance in the competition and who would be leaving. The two groups of competing chefs stood before him, bedraggled and covered in stains.

“This is quite possibly the easiest decision I've ever had to make,” Severus said with a smirk. “The person leaving Hell's Kitchen tonight who will not be advancing to the final is… Keith. What I am looking for is a leader. And you're not ready. Give me your jacket.”

The large man lumbered over and begrudgingly gave Severus his chef’s jacket. “You're saying that Granger’s a better leader than me?” he scoffed. “I've been leading the whole time. Whatever station you told me, through the line with people that didn't know anything.”

“Granger is by far a better leader than you will ever be, dough-boy,” Severus said snidely. “I personally don’t think you’re ready to lead a Girl Scout troop.”

Keith gave him a salacious leer. “I personally think you would like to bend her over a counter and shag her.”

The bastard. Severus narrowed his eyes and didn’t dare look at Granger. “Why must you be so fucking rude?” 

“Because you’re rude to me.”

Severus smiled nastily. “So? Welcome to life. Now I definitely know I've made the right decision—your attitude is atrocious and unacceptable. And you smell like a troll with indigestion. Get out of my sight.”

He watched the wretch lumber off, glad to be rid of him, then spared a glance at Granger and he knew. He _knew_ that she had heard the exchange. The high colour in her cheeks said it all. The only thing he could do was apologise for the lout’s words, but her eyes spoke volumes. They said that things between them were far from settled. An odd sense of anticipation surrounded this wordless conversation. Before he could form another thought, though, that damnably familiar sensation began to swirl in his stomach.

They were slower to land this time, and when they did, they were clearly in some sort of period drama. Severus had a sense that someone on the outside was influencing the transition and, it now appeared, the content. Granger was dressed in a drab, grey dress, reminiscent of Edwardian governesses. He took stock of his own outfit—wool breeches, vest and coat, upturned white collar, black riding boots—and silently cursed the BBC and their love of frilly-frocked productions.

Why in Merlin’s name hadn’t they yet been brought out of the spell-work that Tenpenny had ensnared them in? What was taking so long? Was whoever was with her utterly incompetent? Did they have enough power to exit the scene, stage left, themselves? He withdrew his wand but it felt cumbersome, as if it was merely a stick and not a conduit of his innate magic. Granger was having the same issue, he noted, and her gutted look did things to his chest. 

Avoiding her gaze, he took in the scenery around them: a twilit meadow surrounded by a shadowy forest, with felled logs dotting the landscape. In the distance a medium-sized castle, appropriately gothic and foreboding, rose above the treeline. It was clichéd, it was predictable, it was… dear Merlin, it was the perfect environment to declare oneself to one’s intended. How many stories began and ended thusly? Was this _Wuthering Heights_ , perhaps? He studied himself and Granger again. No, those were not high-born clothes she wore, nor was his own garb of meagre thread. Was it _Pride and Prejudice_? He cringed. Dear God, he was _not_ Darcy, he simply wasn’t. The only brooding male in these works that came even close to his own personality was…

“Thornfield is pleasant in the summer, isn’t it… Hermione,” Severus gritted out. Rochester. Bloody, complicated, Rochester. He refused to call Granger ‘Jane’, though. 

She startled a bit, gave him a tremulous smile and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He noticed her faraway look. “You’ve become attached to the place.”

Her smile faded. “Yes, sir.”

“And you’ll be sad to leave?” 

For some reason, he felt they both were thinking of other things than the farce they were currently playing out. In these alternate realities, they had a certain freedom to be themselves, to disregard societal expectations. They had experienced a form of this on prior missions, but this one broke all the barriers between them and forced them to acknowledge things they had always skirted in previous interactions.

Her answer this time was slow in coming. “Yes,” she murmured, her eyes growing red. She shifted and wrung her hands. “Must I leave, sir? Must I leave Thornfield?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you must.” The words sat heavy upon his lips and he hated uttering them, for the moment he did, tears fringed her lashes.

She swallowed heavily. “You’re to be married?”

“Exactly. Precisely. And you, with your usual acuteness, have already predicted that when I marry Adèle must go to school, and you must find a new situation.”

Granger sniffed, but nodded. “Yes, sir. I will advertise immediately.”

“No, you will not,” Severus corrected and moved closer to her. “I’ve already found you a place in Ireland.”

Her wounded gaze bore holes into him. “Ireland is a long way away. Sir. From Thornfield. It is a long way away from… you.”

Severus gently took her elbow and led her to one of the fallen logs that lay beneath a massive oak tree, where they sat next to each other. “We have been adequate _friends_ , have we not, Hermione?” That dreaded word left a foul taste in his mouth. “It is… difficult to part from a friend and know that you will never meet them again.” He turned to watch her profile, her miserable expression tearing him apart. “And I am sorry to send my friend on such weary travels. But if I can't do better, how is it to be helped?” He searched her countenance for the answer, but she stoically stared ahead. He nudged her shoulder with his. “Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Hermione?”

She closed her eyes and let a tear fall down her cheek, but no answer was forthcoming.

He sighed. “Because I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now. It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and some two hundred miles or so of land broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapped; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.” He inhaled shakily. “As for you, I think you'd forget me.”

That must have been the catalyst for Granger to speak, for she stood and faced him. “I would never forget you,” she whispered harshly. “How can you imagine that?” She dashed away her tears and became rigid. “What do you think I am? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, that I am soulless and heartless?” She stamped her foot for good measure. “You think wrong! I have as much soul as you and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you.”

Severus quickly stood and wrapped his arms tightly around Hermione. “I will not let you leave me, Hermione!” he ground out against her hot cheek. She stiffened and made to extricate herself. “Hermione, be still; don't struggle so like a wild, frantic bird, that is rending its own plumage in its desperation."

She reared back and glared at him. "I am no bird and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being, with an independent will.”

His eyes roamed her face, her wild, untamed hair, her firm resolution, and he gave her a soft smile. “Yes, you will decide your own destiny. I have for the first time found what I can truly love—I have found you. You are my sympathy, my better self, my good angel.”

“I am _not_ an angel,” she asserted. “And I will not be one till I die; I will be myself. Severus Snape, you must neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me—for you will not get it, any more than I shall get it of you, which I do not at all anticipate.”

He barked a laugh and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely; a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart. It leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you, and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one. Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear. The world may laugh, may call me absurd, selfish, but it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame. I ask you to pass through life at my side—to be my second self and best earthly companion.”

She withdrew a little and took the measure of his words. “Truly?”

Yes, they were enacting the fraught scene, but in everything that he had told her there was no lie. This experience had proven that his actions spoke louder than his words. “The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter—often an unconscious but still a faithful interpreter—in the eye.”

A beatific smile spread upon her lips. “All my heart is yours, Sir. It belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forever.”

A rumble of thunder threatened the skies, and Severus took Hermione’s hand and started to run towards the castle… but ran smack into a garishly coloured wall instead. They ended in a heap near a hearth, the fire blazing.

“You two have missed your calling as thespians, I dare say.”

Severus glared up at the visage of Kingsley Shacklebolt. “Timing, Shacklebolt. Bloody timing!”

Kingsley grinned and offered them a hand up. “It could’ve been worse, Severus. I immediately followed when I felt your magical signatures… disappear.” 

Child-like laughter filled the room as they struggled to their feet and Severus was instantly suspicious. He peered around the Minister to spy Adair Tenpenny sitting on a blue sofa, telly remote in hand, smiling a mile wide.

“You two were lots of fun. Much better than the chip shop boy who kept hanging round hoping to nick some of dad’s things.”

All three adults froze. “Adair, where is the chip shop boy, exactly?” Shacklebolt asked firmly.

“I left him in Bob the Builder,” she said cheerfully. At their look of horror, she quickly added, “He was fine. Yesterday.”

Kingsley held out his hand for the remote. “Remember what we discussed?”

“Yeeeeees...” The girl looked as if she was going to point the remote at him, but sighed heavily and turned it over. 

“Just how long have you been here?” Granger asked the Minister, still holding on to Severus’ hand.

Kingsley smirked. “Oh, I’d say about Dipsy and Tinky Winky.” He chuckled at their look of embarrassment. “You really did look like an aubergine.”

Both Severus and Hermione stared at Shacklebolt. “Why on earth did you not get us out sooner?”

“He said he wanted you two to work together more, that maybe you would realise what you had and stop dancing around each other, not that I saw much dancing,” Adair offered.

“Traitor,” Kingsley said, good-naturedly. 

“Did you plan this?” Severus accused. It was unthinkable that the Minister would stoop so low as to conceive of a plan to in order to bring him and Granger together.

Kingsley held up his hands and shook his head. “Not in the slightest.” He looked at the girl. “According to Adair, her father was made redundant last week and he fell into a depression. She became worried and stressed that something would happen to the only parent she’d ever had. So, any perceived threat was summarily dealt with the only way she knew how: magic.” He gave Severus a wink. “I just took advantage of the situation.”

“If I didn’t know you were a Ravenclaw, I would’ve have sworn you were a covert Slytherin,” Severus admitted.

“The church bells…” Granger posed.

“My dad got headaches easily. So, I stopped the ringing.”

“Clever girl,” Severus reiterated his earlier assessment.

Adair grinned. “Mr Shacklebolt told me Miss Granger will help me learn how to control my power if I ask her nicely, and when I’m old enough I’ll get a wand and it will help me to focus, but I won’t get one if I continue to make people disappear,” she recited. 

“And?”

“Ugh,” she pouted. “I have to bring back all the people I left in the telly.” At Kingsley’s raised brow, she huffed again. “And I have to apologise to Miss Granger and Mr Snake about making them go through all that stuff because I thought they were here to steal me.”

“Mr Snake?” Hermione snickered. “He is rather snake-like, isn’t he?” she whispered conspiratorially.

This earned a giggle from the girl and a sneer from Severus. “Potter has, by far, more serpentine qualities than I, seeing as he speaks Parseltongue.” 

“What’s Parsleytongue?” Adair asked excitedly.

Dear Merlin, the girl was definitely going to be in Slytherin. “Snake language. Very few wizard folk have the gift.”

Adair bit her lip and bounced on the cushion. “Can I speak it?”

“Adair…”

She looked at Kingsley and rolled her eyes. “Fine. When I’m eleven.” She gave them a mischievous grin. “I’m going to _love_ Hogwarts!”

Kingsley smiled indulgently and handed Severus the remote. “She enchanted it to capture persons she felt were a threat to her or her father. By accident, of course.” 

Severus wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t contradict the Minister. Kingsley, ignoring his glare, asked Adair to show him around her house, and to rouse her father so that arrangements could be made for her magical education. When they left the room, silence hovered between himself and Hermione until it was unbearable.

“Did you mean it—”

“Do you regret it—”

Both paused and then laughed lightly. Severus motioned for her to continue.

“I know we were playing our parts in order to get home, but…” She wrapped her arms around herself, looking very unsure.

“Do you regret your answers?” he asked quietly, braced for rejection now that they were in the real world. 

She frowned. “No! Severus, I’ve been trying to pull you out of your basement for almost three years. If anything, I should ask if you truly meant to ask me to marry you.”

They had been colleagues for eight years, had worked closely together in the last three. Had she been trying to draw him out of his shell for that long? How obtuse had he become? Was he that oblivious?

“I think marriage is a bit hasty, don’t you?” 

Her expression became neutral. “Ah. I understand.”

He grimaced as he reviewed his words. “I don’t think you do. I only mean to say that I would actually like to take you out to dinner before we start writing our nuptials.” 

She laughed in relief and nodded. “If marriage happens, it’s because I’ve realised I want to annoy you for the rest of your life.”

He snorted and took her hand. “I shall endeavour to return the favour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in case anyone was wondering what shows I mentioned, they are as follows (in order of appearance):
> 
> Bargain Hunt   
> Teletubbies  
> Top Gear  
> Hamlet (the David Tennant version)  
> Hell's Kitchen (with Gordon Ramsay)  
> Jane Eyre (2006 version with Toby Stephens - I highly recommend this version)
> 
> Again, I do not own any of these programs, and therefore make no money mentioning them. They belong to their creators and the BBC.


End file.
